


Clinical case submission

by colliena



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Ball Gags, Bottom!Eames, Butt Plugs, D/s undertones, Dirty Talk, Inception Reverse Bang 2016, M/M, Mentions of Death, off-screen animal killing, top!arthur
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-13
Updated: 2016-11-13
Packaged: 2018-08-30 20:23:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8547874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/colliena/pseuds/colliena
Summary: A story of journey to self-awareness from too privy psychologist through deer hunting to acceptance.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [2016 Inception Reversebang](http://i-reversebang.livejournal.com) to [this amazing art](http://decodilapidation.tumblr.com/post/153155603987/first-submission-for-inception-reverse-bang) by the very talented [geekbynight](http://geekbynight.livejournal.com). Go and check more of her amazing graphics at her [tumblr](http://decodilapidation.tumblr.com)!
> 
> Beta'd by [tamat9](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tamat9/) and [ grizzly_bear_bane](https://archiveofourown.org/users/grizzly_bear_bane/) a.k.a the duo extraordinaire!
> 
> All remaining mistakes are mine and mine only.

When Eames sets his foot into the shrink’s office he is still fuming with fury after having received referral for psychological evaluation two days ago from his boss. The whole matter is simply ridiculous, really, but - by the silent agreement - no one before won against labour laws in this ‘land of freedom and endless possibilities’ it seems. Eames would gladly have a few words with people who spread such bollocks about America on their bloody fliers handled to you on the streets and airports by the outstretched hands of smiling arseholes.

Nevertheless he smiles at the petite brunette sitting behind the reception desk. “I have an appointment at 8.30 with –“

“Oh yes. Mr Eames, right?”

“Yeah,” he breathes, feeling a little bit sheepish.

“You’re a little bit early. Please sit down in our waiting room and the doctor will attend to you as soon as the present session ends.” Her voice is very pleasant but way more richer and lower than her physique would indicate, but who is Eames to know about those things anyway.

“Yes. Thank you,” he answers politely and turns towards the row of comfortable looking armchairs. The coffee table in front of him is covered in magazines, sorted into neat piles categorized by their themes, as it seems. He takes a look at some of them – National Geographic, Boat Journal, Monthly Psychological Journal and Natural Medicine – chooses National Geographic and starts thumbing its pages, insistently trying to ignore how much his hands sweat and tremble. It’s just a routine procedure required by the law; his boss must have sent him to do it, it’s normal, it’s nothing wrong with him, it’s just one more piece of paper in his work file.

When he loses a fruitless battle with his anxious brain he gives up on the reading and smirking puts the magazine into the Monthly Psychological Journal pile and looks around. Nice petite brunette still types something on her computer, the sound of fast clicking filling the whole, rather empty hall.

The building where the office is located is a bit unusual, stands out like a sore thumb from the generic houses in the quiet family neighbourhood, but in a good way – tall, modern with a heavy massive oak door and neatly kept front lawn. Everything about this place so far is neat; it’s the first word that comes to Eames’ mind when thinking about the office itself too. Dimmed lights and victorian décor put Eames at ease, making him feel almost cozy.  _ ‘Nice psychological trick’ _ he laughs to himself, because seriously, this shrink guy must know his work. Perhaps he must be aged then, too. Well, no –  _ experienced, _ is what you call it nowadays to not sound too rude. Not that it matters in any way – Eames is here only because he has to, these are the procedures and in about an hour he’ll walk out of here and will proceed with his life like all of this was just an unpleasant dream, hopefully the last one of many he’s had recently.

He’s jostled from his thoughts by the door opening and soon a very short man walks out of the office saying, “Thank you doctor. I hope things will progress better from now on.”

“Very possible. Make sure to follow my instructions.” Eames was almost shocked hearing the doctor’s voice – surprisingly deep and low and young, strong. He has his back to Eames, but it’s already easy to say that he’s nothing like Eames expected: short, fat and with greasy gray hair.

“Oh, I will. Thank you once again.” They shake hands vigorously.

“For nothing. Ariadne has already signed you up for an appointment next week. Drive safe.”

Eames watches as the doctor checks his watch and turns around to face him, asking with a smile **,** “Mr. Eames. Am I right?”

Eames just blinks while three thoughts are crossing his mind in a matter of four seconds: it’s exactly 8.30, bloody hell he’s young (is he really qualified or still a student?) and is he talking to me at the moment? He recovers quickly enough though and strides to the doctor offering his hand. “Yes, you’re right and Eames is just fine. Doctor Arthur Lecter as I presume?”

“Yes. That's correct. I’ve been expecting you. Please, come in.” He ushers Eames inside and Eames could swear that he saw the doctor checking him out and smirking. The door to the office closed after them with a prominent sound of finality.

Doctor Lecter leads him to the two comfortable looking armchairs facing each other in front of a big, very old-school looking, colonial style mahogany desk. Sitting down, Eames takes a quick look around. The office is not what Eames would imagine when thinking about the psychiatrist office. Instead of white walls with dull medical posters, the colors on the walls are dark green and gold with paintings framed in thick gold frames, all this accented by the warm light of the setting sun coming from a wide floor-to-ceiling window, the dark grey curtains on every side. No trace of cheap plastic furniture and doctor’s couch either, only wooden floor and open space dotted with sculptures and a few lone wooden cabinets.

What really stands out in this place for Eames though is a fireplace tucked neatly on the side of the desk and spiral staircase leading to an entresol above the fireplace where rows of bookcases filled to the brim with books stand. Eames can’t help but sigh when his eyes land on this sight, it’s really marvelous. Instantaneously he wonders if all these books are of psychological or medicine matter only.

“So…” The doctor’s deep voice breaks him from his little bubble to the earth, his eyes snapping down to the person sitting currently in front of him smirking like he sees something particularly amusing and Eames blushes, because he doesn’t know how long he’s been out, just gaping with open mouth and dreamy eyes; it feels like a solid hour has passed, but it were probably just seconds. Three minutes at most. He hopes he wasn’t drooling. He wiped the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand just in case.

“So…” Eames mimics back, giving his best sheepish smile, that had saved him from the deepest shit many times before, hoping it will help to break the ice, but other words die in his throat when he fully takes in this Doctor he’s facing. To tell the truth, he’s bloody gorgeous with his dark brown eyes and almost black hair slicked to the back. This, plus adding his outfit – charcoal three piece suit, tailored like a glove with a pumpkin orange tie, very classy and very not like Eames has expected – he’s probably aiming to look older, though his baby face is quite lovely. Judging from the way he’s holding himself so far – short efficient movements, precise wording and sitting with his leg crossed, shoulders straight, confident and at ease - Eames has no doubt that Doctor Arthur is a very capable man. All his gorgeousness and youthfulness aside.

“You’ve been sent to me for your psychological evaluation, I’ve been told. I already familiarized myself with your case.”

“With… my case? Am I a case now?” This is already not going how it’s supposed to.

“Yes. Every patient is a case. Every person who comes to me is a patient.”

“Well. I’ve been told that my evaluation is a routine procedure I must take to be permitted to go back to work.” He’s starting to feel a little bit defensive, because what the hell?

“That’s correct. I don’t see anything routine about your case so far though.”

Eames just blinks.

“What do you see instead then?”

“I’ve been approached by an old acquaintance of mine, who asked me to meet with you and help you deal with some issues that you have. After I will be able to evaluate your psychological state.”

“Who?” Eames growls feeling betrayed suddenly. “Who approached you on my behalf?”

Doctor Lecter visibly hesitates, but seems to make his mind up when he answers, “Dominic Cobb.”

“Of bloody course!” Eames snaps angrily. Yes, fucking Cobb would do that. “Fucking wanker,” he mumbles under his nose.

“I think he’s worried about you.”

“Yeah, worried my ass. I know him. He’s always doing everything for his own benefit only.”

“I don’t think that’s right.” The way the Doctor said it, with such conviction and finality, tells Eames that this is not a thing to argue. He decides to drop it. Shouldn’t Doctor Lecter be a more suitable person to know such things, with being a better judge of the character plus Cobb’s acquaintance anyway? Something tells Eames, that he might not be as good as he thinks he is if he’s fooled by Cobb’s charms.

“And how do you even know Cobb? I haven’t seen him interact with many civilized people thus far.” He hopes his mocking expression conveys what words ever couldn’t.

“I’ve treated his wife for depression.”

Well, that perks Eames’ attention. It is a clear breach in protocol. Eames is still curious to see how far this goes, nonetheless. “Oh yeah? And how has that went?” He’s smirking. He just can’t help himself, because he knows very well how Cobb’s wife, Mallorie, ended, so to speak. Not so good a therapist this Doctor Lecter is, then.

“She committed suicide,” the answer comes, and it takes Eames a little aback. He wasn’t expecting the straightforward truth. It’s not a common occurrence to brag about failures among any medical representative, if any is willing to talk about his patients with his other patients in the first place. Perhaps this Lecter guy here has his work ethic a little askew? Very interesting.

Eames sends a challenging smile as an answer to Doctor Arthur’s tight expression. “Yes. So I’ve heard,” and then he adds after a beat, “Let’s hope that my prognosis is a bit more optimistic here,” just to ruffle some feathers.

The look his companion sends him chills Eames to the bone marrow and he feels his smile dying on his face. Searing gaze meets his, searching, penetrating, the big wheels turning behind those brown eyes for sure, deciding, probably even assessing, like turning Eames’ person inside-out and making a decision about his fate, before landing on a challenging glint. It’s scary and fascinating at the same time. Eames vaguely wonders if he didn’t overstep here a little. He probably shouldn’t have had almost made fun of Mal’s death and that Arthur here hadn’t been able to help her. Eames and his bloody tongue. Always faster than his brain.

Thrown under such scrutiny he starts fidgeting with the straps of his bag until Arthur decides he drew enough conclusions about him and that he has a whole detailed plan of how to destroy Eames and to make sure he never will be able to go back to work again and speaks, “Yes. Let’s hope it is.” He’s smirking again, the bastard.

“Tell me what happened two months ago.” Arthur’s voice, so cool and professional, makes Eames shudder, for the reasons he is not able to dwell on right now, or simply refuses to do so, because it could only lead to one of two things: fear or arousal.

He snorts crossing his arms over his chest. “Like you don’t know already. I’m sure Cobb introduced you to my  _ ‘case’ _ . He has a big mouth.” He’s absolutely not sulking.

“He did, yes, he told me what happened from his side, plus I did my own research on you. Now I would like to know at first-hand about that night and its repercussions,” Doctor explains patiently with an even voice like talking to a spooked horse.  _ ‘Shrink’s voice’ _ , Eames’ mind supplies.

“Oh please, amuse me. What have you heard so far?” He’s not sure the Doctor will tell him anything, even if his approach to the matter of confidentiality so far is a bit vogue.

“Cobb only told me you’re a very successful and established cage MMA fighter, that five months ago, during your latest fight you beat your opponent to death,” the Doctor recited from memory.

Oh, that’s enough. Now Eames gets angry for real. He points accusingly at this cheeky doctor with his finger. “That’s bollocks. I fought honestly and by the rules.”

Getting more and more angry at the memory, he continues “We were at it for three rounds and he wasn’t fine from the start. I said so to my coach, who told it to Cobb, but they did nothing. This guy was swaying on his feet and wasn’t focused, his gaze was absent. I immediately assumed he was high as a kite, which goes against the rules, but cancelling the fight wasn’t even an option for me, nor was for Cobb. He would lose too much money.” He almost spat the last words with disgust.

“At the time, he was going desperate,” he continued, willing himself to calm down, “money's tight since the death of his wife. Everyone knows Mal was doing logistics and books while he was responsible for people. He knows shite about running a business and it showed.”

With arms crossed over his chest and breathing fast and deep through his nose he feels something akin to relief. It’s probably the first time he ever said any of it aloud. Such a simple thing as listening never crossed anyone's mind from his circle before; his mates and colleagues aren’t the ‘let’s sit and talk this through’ type of lads – they’re dealing with matters with low grunts of acknowledgement and shoulder slapping in a seemingly supportive manner. This is a man's world, full of testosterone. The world of which Eames is a part of, though he likes to think about it as some form of acting.

Doctor Lecter is listening attentively, his face emotionless, straight even at the mentions of Cobb’s wife. When he speaks his voice is hoarse. “What happened next? How your opponent lost?”

Eames thinks about lying, saying he got seizures or something like that, but Arthur probably already knows the end result. Besides, he’s not seeking an absolution from a third party here - he’s not at church but on a therapy session to help him work it through and maybe, maybe he would be able to finally forgive himself.

“The fight continued, although it wasn’t hard to throw punch after punch until after one particularly hard blow he fell to the ground and never stood again.” He exhales loudly. “When the ambulance came the doctor declared him dead. Later announced the cause of death had something to do with subdural hematoma he wasn’t aware he’d had. The drugs and the punching only helped it to crack. And puff, dead in a second.”

“You’re blaming yourself for this accident?”

“I do believe I caused it, yeah. He’d had a shit show under his skull, but if I only would have listened to my guts and maybe been more assertive about fighting him, things would go differently. At least to my conscience.” When he looks up from the floor at the Doctor, he’s met with suddenly vivid brown eyes, sparkling and empathetic.

Eames loses himself to the Doctor’s stare and almost misses what Arthur is saying when he answers quietly, “You couldn’t have had prevented his death. Some things are beyond your control.”

“Like Mal was beyond yours?” Eames asks whispering, trying to sound comprehensive.

At that, the Doctor turns his head to the side, narrowing his eyes at the window. Eames notes how his left hand resting upon the armrest balls into a fist.

“The only problem is, I do love to have control,” he says with a voice so tight that Eames barely restrains himself to not to reach across and pet him.

“I don’t,” he confesses instead.

This is really stupid. No one needs to know that he doesn’t feel so manly inside, that all his life he tried desperately to fit in, wanted to be one of the boys doing so much stupid things because of it. His sexuality wasn’t helping either, so he bulked up, started associating himself with some local London thugs, then got involved in pick pocketing, art and cars theft, until finally into street fighting. He was surprisingly good at it, and so it stuck to him.

This is how he met Mal, at some hole in the wall bar. After his winning fight she came to him and asked if he wanted to be a professional fighter in America. He almost puked from the intensity of his laughter that her proposition caused, but long story short he ended up moving to The States and being one of the best, most accomplished cage fighters of present times.

Doctor Lecter simply looks at him with squinted eyes, assessing. Eames rubs his sweaty palm over the material of his chinos and fidgets. The air is suddenly impossibly thick as his companion only stares him down and it makes Eames anxious to the point he thinks he has to get himself out of this situation, so he blurts, “Look, I don’t know what you think you know about me, but I assure you I’m fine. I need this paper from you –“

“Troubles with sleeping, cold sweat, losing consciousness for longer periods of time, constant feeling of anxiety, difficulties with focusing on a singular activity,” the doctor’s voice, icy voice, cuts in. “Does it sound familiar?”

“How,” Eames swallows and tries again, “How could you possibly –“

“Know your symptoms?” doctor Lecter interrupts him again. “I know a lot of things about you, though these are typical tale tells of your trauma.” He sounds smug saying this. Eames wants to shove his words back into his cupid’s bow lips just to be contrary.

Maybe, if he tries again to reason with Arthur he’ll get the idea and give Eames his evaluation so Eames can be on his way. “Again, your assumptions are fascinating –“

“Even though you’ve never set a foot into any University,” doctor cuts in again and Eames huffs irritated, “you forged your major art history degree almost flawlessly. I am impressed.”

Eames gapes, taken aback. How could he possibly know that, if no one besides Eames himself has this knowledge. His anger builds at rapid pace, even quicker when doctor Lecter speaks again.

“Shame that you didn’t use your full real name though, Theodor Eames Thompson-Wright III.”

This is too much. “What the buggering fuck, mate?” he shouts, almost knocking back the armchair when he gets to his feet. “You don’t have any idea what you’re talking about now, doc,” he sneers, looming over Arthur, casting shadow on him with his bulk.

The Doctor stands as well, apparently not even a little scared and when he meets Eames’ eyes with his level stare he says simply, “I disagree,” and raises his brow challengingly.

Eames squeezes his eyes shut tightly and wills himself not to lose it, not to just pounce on him and knock the breath out of him, his nails bite viciously into his fisted palms.

Opening his eyes to send this prick a threatening look he points his finger at Arthur, his voice low and hard, “Don’t psychoanalyze me. You won’t like me when I’m psychoanalyzed.” After a bit of loaded silence he adds with malice, “You and Cobb can take this evaluation and shove it in your arses. I’m done.”

He turns on his heels and strides out of the office. He doesn’t bother to close the door behind him just like Arthur doesn’t bother to stop him. He barely remembers walking out of the building. Nice short brunette only turned her head after his retreating back with mild curiosity.

-

That same evening Eames leaves Cobb a very angry voice message telling him exactly what he thinks about his methods and his stupid idea of sending him to Doctor Lecter.

The next day he receives back a short voice message, “He’s good at what he does.”

_ ‘Oh, he’s the best,’ _ Eames barks angrily under his nose. Who does Cobb think he is? And silly of him to think so after what Lecter did with his wife. Or rather what he didn’t do. Anyway, Eames won’t be another soul thrown to the sharks.

He stays inside of his house for the rest of the week, he’s that put out and angry.

-

Of course Eames’s curiosity gets better of him. After the first week of stubborn sulking he’s finally sitting down in front of his laptop googling doctor Lecter. Common search gives him nothing interesting besides dates of his dissertation, faculties and titles of his articles and publications, his specialty being serial killers. He learns though that Arthur worked as an FBI profiler and even has some success in this regard such as helping with catching the Minnesota Shrike and tracking down the Chesapeake Ripper, just to name a few most famous cases.

Eames goes on, checking a couple of psychological sites until he comes across some juicy stories regarding the last case Arthur worked on, of some guy named Francis Dolarhyde, also known as The Tooth Fairy. If to believe the rumors this killer caught up with the FBI’s lead and ambushed Lecter in his office slashing his abdomen with a hunting knife. He spent  months recovering in a hospital and then had been referred to the psychiatric ward of the local mental hospital due to the profound disturbance the incident caused. After a month in the latter hospital, he retired from the FBI. Count Eames shocked about all of this.

Despite not being the best hacker Eames is able to break into the mental hospital’s database and reads notes of Arthur’s former psychiatrist and still therapist, some doctor Bloom, and realizes that Mal died three weeks after Arthur was released from the psychiatric ward, which means she must have been getting worse at the same time Arthur was working with FBI on Dolarhyde’s case. It’s very probable that it was simply too late for Arthur to help her when he was finally able to. It’s even more probable that Eames is simply a tremendous arsehole.

-

The lights in the hall are almost completely out when Eames walks in. It’s already too late for visits, just as he hoped, he wanted to make sure he could catch doctor Lecter alone. If he walked upon someone still there he would probably chicken out. The receptionist, Ariadne as Arthur referred to her the last time, isn’t there, most probably left work for the day. He knocks at the door to Lecter’s office and steps back, not wanting to scare the doctor.

Arthur is visibly very surprised when he opens the door and sees Eames standing in the darkened hall with his coat hung over his arm.

“Mr. Eames? What a surprise. What can I do for you?”

Eames clears his throat before saying, “I’m so sorry I came this late. I hope I’m not bothering you. Can I come in?”

Doctor stands aside in silent invitation. “Never apologize for coming to me,” he says, closing the door. “I wasn’t sure you would come back, judging from how you all but stormed out from here the last time.”

Eames drops his coat onto the armchair and walks slowly towards the staircase leading to the entresol. “I wasn’t intending to come back,” Eames admits, distracted by the sight of all these books.

“What made you reconsider?”

“Let’s say new circumstances came up to the daylight. I also wanted to apologize for my behavior at the last session,” Eames says and glances behind his back at Arthur before continuing with ogling the books.

“Apologies accepted,” the doctor answers softly.

Eames can feel the hair on his neck stand on end and his hand stops in its attempts to reach for a book placed on the lower shelf when he feels Dr. Lecter leaning to him, his nose a breath away from the skin of his neck and his shoulder. He shifts minutely his head to the side and the force of realization almost knocks him over, though he schools his face impassive. He has a remarkable poker face when it’s needed.

“Did you just smell me?” Eames asks incredulous and amused at the same time. He can feel more than see, not quick enough to turn in time to catch Arthur straightening himself swiftly, his expression like someone who is caught red-handed but not feeling guilty about it.

“Difficult to avoid,” the doctor says smugly, his lips twitch involuntarily upward and Eames is at a loss for words, because  _ seriously _ ? Before he’s able to gather his thoughts and open his mouth with some witty retort, ready to tease the Doctor, Arthur is already speaking, “So are you here to resume your therapy?”

Eames just nods.

“Perfect. I suggest we meet three times a week for start and see how it goes.”

Eames wants to protest, he’s not that damaged to require sessions this often, but it’s he who came here after all so maybe he got what he deserves. On the other side, the more often they meet and work through Eames’s problems the sooner Eames would get his evaluation.

“So let’s be it,” he sighs heavily, theatrical.


	2. Chapter 2

“Aarghh…”

Still pinging.

“What a bloody nightmare!” Eames rolls around on his back, running his hand over his face, kneading at his eyes. Another ping, then insistent knocking. Not much of a dream then. What sort of suicidal soul would venture to his house at - he peers at the nearby clock showing 8.47 am - this ungodly hour of the dawn?! He groans long and loudly in suffering. Another knock causes his dogs to start barking in earnest.

“Arghh!” He grunts angrily and hits the mattress with his fist. “The hell?” he mutters under his nose heaving himself into standing. Pivoting, he navigates in the direction of the front door, mindful not to walk into one of his dogs running anxiously around his feet while simultaneously trying to clear his vision from the holds of sleep. Walking down the stairs he yells “I’m coming!” at the sound of more knocking, muttering ‘Jesus Christ’ under his nose.

He opens the door and the gust of chilly fresh air instantaneously helps him to wake up fully. Or not at all as he’s standing face to face with Doctor Lecter. He idly wonders if perhaps he’s still dreaming after all. His five dogs spill onto the porch barking and sniffing excitedly at their guest.

Arthur pets the dogs and gives Eames a blatant once over, lips smirking and tone mocking, yet feigning surprise when he speaks “Mr. Eames. I hope I didn’t wake you up or anything?” His raised brow looks elegant, Eames admits to himself.

“Oh, not at all” Eames answers, his tone matching in mockery. “I was just getting ready to take a walk.”

“Perhaps you should consider dressing more accordingly to the weather conditions then.” Now Arthur is fucking with him and not even trying to hide it.

Eames looks down at himself and yes, actually, he is indeed standing onto his porch with his white sleep t-shirt and green boxers, with his feet bare and hair tousled, for sure sticking out in every direction like it is every bloody morning, in front of Arthur, immaculately dressed in a winter camel overcoat open at the collar to reveal a dark purple dress shirt, brown paisley tie and a lapel of dark silver jacket, black and red checkered scarf hanging loose from his shoulders.

“Why did you come to my house? How do you know where I live?” Still a little stunned, now Eames becomes worried when regaining more consciousness – he’s never been particularly bright first thing in the morning. He scratches his arse cheek for lack of better things to do with his hand.

“I’ve heard you’ve been found sleepwalking yesterday a couple of miles from your home in the middle of the night. I came to check on you. Your address was in your file.”

Eames’ scowl only deepens as he contemplates if this man is a wizard or something. How does he know these things?

“May I come in?” Arthur asks sweetly and shoulders his way into Eames’s house not bothering with waiting for him to answer.

“Of course. Be my guest,” Eames grumbles to the Doctor’s back.

They sit down by the kitchen table, two plastic containers between them. Eames eyes it with trepidation. “You’ve bought me a salad?” His eyebrow creeps under his hairline while he peers at Arthur from under his eyelashes.

“I’ve made you a salad. Eating arrangement always helps to form an environment for a conversation.”

When Eames only peers up some more, Arthur adds a little sheepishly, “Plus you could use some vitamins.”

He’s still not convinced when he’s stabbing some greenery onto his fork, but is pleasantly surprised by its rich taste of herbs and burst of spices. He bites some kind of meat that melts on his tongue.

Arthur is watching him expectantly, fiddling with his fork anxiously, probably waiting for his opinion. At Eames’ loud grunt of approval he relaxes visibly and smiles, taking his own bite with gusto.

“So what’s all this? Are you doing home visits now?” Eames asks inelegantly, with his mouth full and swirling his fork for emphasis.

“I care for my patients.” Comes his curt answer.

“Are you this caring with all of your patients?” Eames narrows his eyes at him, lowering his voice. “Do you invade the privacy of all of your patients’ homes?” he purrs. He gleefully notes how the tips of Arthur’s ears gone pink.

“You’re not, what one could call, a regular patient, so I’m adjusting my measures accordingly.”

Eames chuckles. “Today we eat salads and who knows, in two weeks we’ll drink beer and tell war jokes,” his tone sarcastic.

“Oh yeah. God forbid we become friendly.”

Eames sets his fork down, leans across the table narrowing his eyes and growls “I don’t find you that interesting.” He looks straight into the doctor’s eyes.

Arthur hold his gaze and looks back equally focused and like he’s trying to pry at Eames’s soul. After a bit he says simply “You will” and smirks challengingly.

Eames is taken aback. He didn’t think Arthur would raise to his bait, but for some reason, as the chill goes down his spine, he does not have any doubt that this statement is correct. To mask his confusion he smirks back easily and leans more comfortably in his chair.

Before he can come up with any intelligent retort, Arthur speaks first. “So tell me about last night. What do you remember doing before going to bed and after you came up to your senses in the middle of nowhere.”

So Eames does.

-

When Eames drives away from his house the sun starts to rise slowly chasing away the night’s darkness. It’s not winter yet, but the air is crisp and very chilly, typical for this time of year. He turns up the heating in his old pick-up cursing himself for agreeing to this ridiculous trip. Arthur talked him into accompanying him to the hunting in the woods on the other side of the city. How they came to that - Eames has no idea, he’s never been hunting before. It’s very hard to say no to Arthur; even if he tries, and he really did, the young doctor always finds a way to get his way. Eames is simply not immune to his charms; Arthur juts adorably his bottom lip like he’s a pouting child being denied of his favorite candy, like he’s somehow hurt by hearing ‘no’ from Eames and Eames just can’t. He’s a manipulative bastard, dear Arthur is, and even though Eames is aware of that it helps with nothing. So here he is, driving at sunrise to the woods to freeze his arse off during deer hunting just because Doctor Arthur - infuriating, privy, insufferable, handsome Arthur - thought it would be a great opportunity to take a peek into his brain at yet another session.

Nearing the edge of the wood Eames notices a dark Lexus parked in the clearing between the trees and seriously? He drove a Lexus to the hunting? He parks his car and hops out walking straight to Arthur’s car and knocks at his window. “Oi, you fancy git, I hope you’re equipped properly because I’m not carrying you around so you won’t ruin your designer dress shoes” he says exasperated.

Rolling down his window Arthur answers smirking, “You shouldn’t underestimate me, Mr. Eames. I would hope you know this already.” He steps out of his car and Eames can see that he’d definitely dressed to the occasion: trekking shoes, warming waterproof jacket and hunting ear flap hat. Eames is delighted, wild grin adorning his face at the sight.

Arthur must have seen him smiling like a loon because he adds - trying to sound seriously but failing spectacularly when his dimples give him away - “I've hunted since I was 15. You shouldn’t – “

“Oh yes, very reassuring given that you’re what? Twenty now, twenty one at most,” Eames interrupts gleefully, he just couldn’t help himself. Arthur is just too easy sometimes.

The young doctor laughs “Don’t worry, you’re in a good hands.” He adds after a bit with a low voice, smirking, “I’ll defend you” and shoots Eames a challenging look from under his thick lashes, the bastard.

Before opening the trunk of his Lexus and revealing that it contains two very well maintained hunting rifles, Arthur slowly puts on black leather gloves one by one, and Eames can’t tear his eyes away of the sight. It’s electrifying, waking up something coiled inside of him that he wasn’t aware was even there. He wills his brain to chill the fuck down though, because getting a stiffy right now would be bloody inconvenient.

“Do you know how to use it?” Arthur asks handing him a rifle.

“Yeah, I do.” Eames worked briefly part-time at a shooting range after moving to America, because he wasn’t the best fighter right away and not being the best didn’t pay well enough. He takes it, checks if it’s loaded, reloads it and puts the safety back on. Arthur can’t quite hide his shock in time.

“Eames, I am impressed.”

“You’re condescension – as always – is much appreciated, Doctor Lecter. Thank you.” He retorts back and is delighted when Arthur rolls his eyes with exaggeration. Unfortunately it does nothing to wilt his erection.

“Let’s go before you’re nonsense scares the animals away” Arthur grumbles.

-

The cabin is small but cozy, as far as cabins in the woods go. In spite of its modest décor, essentials are present. Eames takes a look around and as soon as he spots the kitchenette he starts on the task of making them tea.

Arthur returns to the cabin while Eames is pouring the hot water into two mugs. “Just in time.”

“I dragged the deer into the adjoining hut. We can start on flaying it after we warm up.”

“Excellent,” Eames grumbles sarcastically, not looking forward to this part. He passes Arthur his mug with still slightly trembling hands.

Of course the Doctor notices. “Stage-fright?” he asks, sounding genuinely curious.

“No” Eames lies, but corrects himself quickly, “Well, a little. I’m still a bit stunned and I know I won’t enjoy the next part.”

“More than the killing part?” Arthur inquires.

Eames thinks about how he felt earlier pulling the trigger, like some heartless twat shooting a harmless animal just for the sake of it, for the thrill, and then again he thinks about the jolt of pure pleasure and sense of satisfaction, no, accomplishment, as he hit it on the first try and it collapsed to the ground. He felt the same jolt when Dave Marshall fell to the ground after receiving right hook from him straight to his jaw; it lasted just for a brief moment right before the realization of its consequences dawned on him and the shit show started.

Eames takes his time, seriously considering the answer before reluctantly admitting “Yes. More than the killing part.” He swallows around the sour bile gathered in his throat at the truth of it. His skin tingles from the intensity of Arthur’s gaze and he knows he’s blushing when their eyes meet.

“When you shot a deer today,” Arthur asks, “who was it that you saw?” His voice penetrates through Eames’s racing thoughts.

“I didn’t see Dave. Just a deer.”

“Then at least we know his ghost isn’t haunting you.” Arthur smiles at him, causing a responding quirk of Eames’ lips.

Arthur comes this one step closer that separated them, puts his hand onto Eames’ shoulder and squeezes. “Do you really feel so bad because killing him felt so good?” he asks earnestly, like it’s the most fascinating mystery ever known to the human species that he needs to be revealed. Eames is not sure if Arthur is referring to the deer or to Dave Marshall but it doesn’t matter. The thing is – it felt good in both cases.

“I liked doing so” Eames admits whispering, not able to prevent his voice from quivering. He balls his hands into fists.

“Killing must feel good to God too,” Arthur says unperturbed. “He does it all the time.”

“I’m still not entirely sure it wasn’t my intention to go out there and kill; that every time I go out to fight is not to kill. When I fight, some voice tells me to win no matter what. I have never submitted during a fight.”

“If your intention was to kill him it’s because you understand that it comes from the human nature – a strike to survive.”

“I feel bad because by killing him I feel like shit.”

“You didn’t kill him. You didn’t act on your instinct but chose to ignore it instead. He wouldn’t have had ended up dead if he hadn’t been ill.”

“Yeah,” breathes Eames shakily.

“You put yourself in a situation when your instincts yell it’s you or it’s him,” Arthur continues. “It doesn’t make you a bad person.” Arthur’s hand is still touching Eames’s shoulder. “In fact, God sent a tornado last year to Texas that killed 27 of his supposedly beloved children during a Sunday’s mass.”

Eames is gobsmacked. Was it a joke or is Arthur simply trying to lighten up the mood by counting up the crimes worse than his? “And did God feel good about that?”

Arthur regards him for a second. “He felt powerful.” Eames just stares with mouth agape.

“C’mon Mr. Eames. Let’s start on this deer before his meat goes cold,” Arthur says and smirks.

Realizing that his shoulder feels cold when the young Doctor took his hand away, Eames swallows loudly and dutifully follows.

-

Clamping down the feeling of nausea that rises at the sight of a hairy belly being cut open and blood oozing and guts spilling to the small metal bathtub underneath the table with loud rumbling sound, Eames steps aside as Arthur, clad in a white protective coat, expertly removes most of the deer’s intestines. The smell of blood and excrements hangs heavily in the air. Eames considers going vegetarian from now on. Instead, he pushes a small window open.

The deer was hanging upside down, limp and lifeless, on antlers adorning the whole wall of hunting trophies in the hut when Eames walked in, blood dripping from its slit throat. His mouth was suddenly very dry when Arthur unpacked his outfit from his bag, stripped off of his jacket, revealing that underneath it he wore a dress shirt and a tie - for a bloody hunting trip – and started putting white, latex looking protective coat on. It somehow suited him and Eames thought of a pathologist during an autopsy or a forensic specialist arriving at the crime scene, like he saw them do on tv shows.

Arthur works methodically, focused on gutting and skinning the animal. Eames stands aside and for a short time just admires him, the move of his forearms, the contemplative frown on his face, how he huffs while working on some heavier bits of flesh. It’s only Arthur’s deep, slightly breathless voice that snaps Eames of his own head when he’s asked conversationally “How’s your sex life?”

“Wha –“ Eames chokes. “What are you on about now?” he stutters. Was he daydreaming long enough to lose his mind and to start hearing things? He coughs and clears his suddenly clogged throat hoping to mask his bewilderment and mortification with it and tries lamely “ How does it matter at all?”

“Oh it does,” Arthur says, “love life and even preferred sex dynamics can tell a lot about a person. Sometimes it’s the only way we allow ourselves to be who we really are, fully comfortable with ourselves, and sometimes it’s the only way we allow others to see us, really for what we are.”

It sounds very unlikely to Eames, like a typical shrink gibberish, but then again, he’s not an expert here. “I’m not good at relationships, I guess.”

“And why’s that?” Arthur asks intrigued.

“I dunno,” Eames shrugs feigning indifference. “Not enough time maybe?”

Arthur’s casually slicing chunks of meat - like it’s perfectly normal to mix sex talk with meat dealings - while he’s inquiring further, not even acknowledging Eames except of when he speaks. “Does it have something to do with your repression?” he asks.

“What repression?” Eames asks sharply, his head snapping so fast towards Arthur that the gust of air ruffles short hair at young doctor’s neck.

Arthur waves his bloodied hand vaguely. “Oh, you know. We’re not living in a big city, by American standards, but you can be yourself here - out of the closet, I mean. People here mind their own business.”

“I wasn’t living in a village thus far, you know?” Eames grumbles indignant and crosses his arms. “London’s a civilized city.”

“Yeah, but you were surrounded by a specific kind of people there,” Arthur counters. “I don’t imagine you’ve had a lot of freedom to express yourself.”

It amuses Eames. “I’m still among such people. I’m still a fighter,” he says and chuckles before he continues more seriously, “There are things expected from me. I have an image to maintain. My position depends on how manly I am. The more the better.”

“Aha, so you’re admitting it because of your profession. Do you feel like you can’t be gay and a good fighter?” A droplet of sweat appeared on Arthur’s temple, sliding down, down still to his jaw. It’s ridiculously distracting.

“I can and I am,” Eames manages, though with effort. “I’m the best and you have no idea what you’re talking about.” He turns around and leans on windowsill, gaze locked on the trees, before continuing, “Even in the 21st century there are some sport disciplines that are not very open to gay people. I just chose the easier path; no name calling, no shaming, no questioning my skills or my appearance based on my sexuality.” He’s sulking, he knows.

“So I was right, you are repressed.” Arthur says with a little bit of triumph in his voice. “How do you let go then? Where?”

Eames blinks. “I don’t think I follow…”

“Well, how do you unwind all this tension?” Arthur asks looking over his shoulder at Eames.

“I… don’t.”

Scowling, Arthur says “That’s not healthy.” He turns fully towards Eames staring, blood dripping from his hands and adds, “And a shame, really. You take orders and directions so beautifully.” Something flashes in his eyes then and is gone before Eames has a chance to blink. 

No one’s ever said anything like that to him so he really doesn’t know what to say. He blurts the first thing that comes to his mind, “It been awhile since I’ve done that.” 

Arthur looks dazed regarding him for a minute before cocking his head and asking “When you do engage with someone, do you usually top?”

This time Eames is not put out with his boldness. ‘ _ Actually, I’m a slutty bottom. That’s why I can’t let go with people, can’t show them how I really am’ _ he thinks but doesn’t speak for a while.

“Do you keep the appearances of alpha male also in bed?” Arthur clarifies cautiously.

“What?! Why do you assume they’re appearances?” Eames asks incredulous. “Let me tell you that you represent a very narrow perspective here, Mr. know it all,” he growls.

Arthur has the balls to smile at that, bloody wanker. “Yeah, I know,” he breathes, ‘But we’re not talking about the matters in general, we’re talking about you.”

“Why don’t we talk about you then?” Eames’ nose almost touches Arthur’s. How did he end up standing so close to him?

“Because you’re the subject to inspect here.” Arthur refuses to look away or even twitch.

It makes Eames’s head spin. “Oh bloody hell, like you minded it so far. You’re professional etiquette is strongly lacking and even such laic like me can tell.”

Arthur just raises his brow and juts his chin up. “I’m an excellent top,” he says.

“Yeah right.” Eames snorts. “Says who?”

“Slutty bottoms,” Arthur answers coyly and grins. Eames chokes on his exhale.

“You mean your patients?” he asks frivolously. “You’re such a manipulative arsehole,” he beams and shoves Arthur playfully on his shoulder.

They laugh and the tension breaks a little, but Eames is still intrigued so he takes a deep breath and asks “What makes you say so, besides all excellent opinions and recommendations?”

Arthur shrugs. “Because I like to top. That’s my preference, and I like to control so it aligns somewhere in the middle.” He turns to the halfway cut and boned deer meat and resumes his task. “I do what I like to do. Do you not?” he asks after a while.

“I do what’s expected of me.”  _ ‘Ignoring what I really like and who I really am,’ _ Eames keeps the latter to himself.

“You think that bottoming you can’t control?” he asks contemptuously, which elicits a long suffering sigh from Arthur before he speaks, “Yes, you can, but mostly only yourself, and I like to take control, to control someone else.”

Eames can’t suppress the whole body shudder in time for the doctor to not notice. Maybe, Eames thought to himself, it’ll be good to be around someone who knows who he is and is comfortable about it. He hopes he can be this way someday too, to can relax and finally let go.

“And I like to be controlled,” he mutters under his nose, to no one in particular, hopefully quietly enough to go unnoticed.

At the table, Arthur clears his throat loudly and chops meat in a particularly vicious way.

-

An hour and a half later all meat is packed away in the two cool boxes that Arthur puts into his car trunk. Eames washes his hands from blood he got while disposing of the waste and is ready to drive away when Arthur approaches him.

“The dinner will be ready at 7 pm. I’m expecting you on time, because venison is terrible if overcooked. Thanks for your help and company.”

Eames is very, very fucked, as he thinks while driving back to his house. Yet again he couldn’t say no to Arthur. It starts to be a fucking problem.


	3. Chapter 3

Before pushing the buzzer at Arthur’s door Eames steels himself by taking three deep breaths and looks himself down again. It isn’t a date, by any chance, so there isn’t any reason to feel this nervous as he does right now. He spent a solid hour in front of his closet opting for the best outfit and just when he chose black slacks, lavender pinstriped shirt and his favorite tweed jacket with patches sewn onto his elbows he remembered that this isn’t a date and quickly changed into his worn black jeans, v-neck gray t-shirt and haphazardly added a black slim vest leaving it unbuttoned; he also messed up his formerly neatly combed back hair.

Running already late he made a stop to get some wine, because date or not (definitely not date this time) his mother taught him some manners. He manages to arrive before time and is now standing in front of Arthur’s door trying to bloody relax. He waits until his watch shows 7 on the dot and swallowing he pushes the buzzer, feeling his heart hammer in his chest.

The door opens and Eames sees Arthur’s surprised eyes and hears him say slightly out of breath, like he ran to open it, “You’re on time.” He takes his time to roam his eyes over the young doctor; and isn’t he lovely tonight wearing crisp white dress shirt opened at the collar, white apron fastened on his waist covering what appears to be black dress pants underneath, single lock of hair strayed onto his forehead from his otherwise perfectly slicked back black hair.

Eames can’t mask his amusement. “That I am,” he beams at him. “Is it bad? Should I go take some rounds around the house?” he chuckles.

“No, I wouldn’t want to inconvenience you. Please come in,” Arthur says smirking as he steps aside to let Eames in.

Eames finds himself being lead through the dining room, noticing the long wooden table set for two, adorned with fresh flowers and candles and he gulps, because it isn’t a date, it shouldn’t, it can’t, and feels his face going all read and flushed because he’s dressed like a bum and honestly, date or not, he should have known better. He clutches the wine bottle in his palm a little harder.

“I’m sad to say that the dinner isn’t ready yet,” Arthur says just as they’re entering the kitchen, Eames dutifully following him, and continues, “I’ve had some difficulties with the sauce texture – it never happened before - and I got caught up in it not realizing how much time have passed, so – “ he stops talking to tend to some food sizzling in the pan by grabbing it and rocking its content forward and back before putting it down and announcing sheepishly, “ – so we’ll have to wait for it for another 15 minutes.”

Eames only vaguely pays attention to Arthur’s words because he’s busy being astounded; first when all heavenly smells hit him at once and then by the look of Arthur’s kitchen – neat, all shiny metal surfaces, very sparse, very modern, very professional. He only saw ones like this when he was working washing dishes in a restaurant in London, back when he was still a teenager.

He snaps back to himself only to be floored once again when his eyes catch Arthur setting whatever it was in the pan on fire, dressed still in his crisp white dress shirt that remains pristine – not even one spot got onto it. What he’s gotten himself into? Arthur didn’t mention that beside being a shrink he’s also a part-time chef. With his mouth still hanging open he put down the bottle of wine he was clutching to his chest as an anchor.

“Oh, you’ve brought wine. Very thoughtful of you. Thank you,” Arthur says smiling while inspecting the bottle, nodding his approval or just being bloody ace with poker face; let’s be honest – Eames knows shit about wine, he asked the lovely lady behind the counter for something that would go along with venison while being poncy at the same time.

“Please, make yourself at home. Pour us some wine while I go and make myself decent. Excuse me.”

“No, really, Arthur come on, you’re at you home – “ Eames starts to protest, abashed by all this effort he put apparently for him, but is interrupted by Arthur’s simple and definitive “No trouble. The wine glasses are in the cabinet above the sink. I’ll be back in a minute.”

He watches Arthur unfastening his apron, folding it neatly before striding away. Left alone Eames takes wine glasses and starts rummaging through drawers looking for a corkscrew. When setting everything on a shiny countertop and pouring the liquid he notices a small wooden box with closed lid. Curiosity gets better of him though and after making sure he’s still alone he opens it just to find it filled to the brim with cards, by size resembling business cards, sorted alphabetically, every each having a different recipe written on it, a lot of recipes that is. Suddenly the long dining table, professionally equipped kitchen and amazing skills with knives and cutting meat make sense.

“You throw a lot of dinner parties, don’t you?” he asks closing the lid of the box when he senses the doctor’s presence and leans his hip on the counter facing the young man. Arthur comes closer to him smiling and reaches for his wine glass; he’s wearing the same pants and shirt, but now he put a black vest that’s hugging his sides like a dream, silver and gold paisley tie and black jacket, hair perfectly combed back. Eames can feel his face tingling with warmth as he yet again feels underdressed.

Arthur’s standing so close that Eames has to lean his head back to avoid being hit in his nose by the wine glass when Arthur takes a sip. He closes his eyes relishing the taste before humming. Eames can feel the responding vibrations in his own chest.

“Hmm, not as much as you think,” Arthur answers, running the pink tip of his tongue over his lips chasing after the taste. Eames is captivated by the sight, wanting nothing more than to join his tongue in the chase and try it for himself.

“Nor as much as I used to,” Arthur adds, sighing. “Let me tell you that my annual dining Saturdays were very successful, and famous.” Something dances in his eyes, something like pride and mischief and Eames is stunned how much he’s allowed to see and a little bit terrified by the same reason.

He has to swallow four times before he’s able to speak and yet he sounds hoarse, even to his own ears. “Why did you stop?” he inquires.

The light dies in Arthur’s eyes. “They’ve ah –” he hesitates briefly, but continues sad and resigned “They’ve lost their prestige among the psychological society I guess.” He finishes his glass and steps towards the stove. Eames suspects why; almost everyone turned their back on Arthur after an assault on him and then a bad reputation after suicide of one of his patients wasn’t helping either.

“But I do love cooking. I mostly cook for myself now and sometimes for friends when they visit, so I’m this more happy that tonight I could have cooked for you,” Arthur adds and beams, positively beams at Eames and this makes Eames happy too, stupidly so, because he’s made Arthur genuinely smile and now his chest feels tight, mouth dry. He can’t find any coherent words to respond with so he stays quiet and just looks at the dimples and shiny dark brown eyes and lets himself enjoy every second and smiles, and smiles, and smiles.

He watches Arthur setting two white plates and putting food on it, arranging it in a very fancy way, adorning it with fresh herbs, sliced fruits and heavenly smelling sauce, smiling all the time when he’s at it, and it’s simply Arthur in his element, in his world. Eames himself is not into the proper service of food, because ultimately it will end up in his belly anyway and his food doesn’t have to look appealing as long as it tastes good, so he watches Arthur like some kind of exotic talent show, but appreciates the sight nevertheless.

When Arthur’s satisfied and the plates are up to his liking he hands to Eames a platter with what Eames assumes can only be a roasted part of deer’s meat and leads the way to the dining room.

He shamelessly moans loudly and long at the taste of meat and with everything Arthur put on his plate it’s heaven on Earth. Eames had never eaten anything like it; he thought the salad Arthur made for him was delicious, but this, this is something beyond words, so he just happily polishes his plate clean and hums and grunts and moans some more. Otherwise, they eat at companionable silence. Eames catches Arthur blushing a couple of times after his particularly appreciative sighs and moans, but other than that the doctor doesn’t speak.

“Arthur, this was amazing,” Eames says after he puts his plate aside and reaches for his glass of wine. “Really, I never experienced such fine cuisine. My taste buds are rather Spartan, mind you, so maybe it’s not a lot coming from me, but count me as enlightened.” He’s making a fool of himself, as usual, but it’s worth it for the brilliant smile that illuminates Arthur’s face at that.

“I’m glad you liked it. I enjoyed feeding you,” he says shyly, trying to cover the blush spreading on his cheeks by his wine glass. Eames doubts it’s caused by alcohol, even though they’re at their second bottle by now.

Arthur is flirting with him, in his adorable clumsy way, Eames’s sure and he’s going to prove it, that’s why he says “The best therapy session I’ve ever had.”

Instead of scolding him, or worse, taking offence at his words Arthur just smiles, “Oh c’mon. Office hours are for my patients. This? This is for my friends.”

Eames’s chest swells with pride, there is no other way to put it, pure pride and joy he feels at being praised and recognized by Arthur as a friend; he wants to wrap himself in this moment like a burrito and roll around the floor or … kneel in front of Arthur and silently butt his head on Arthur’s hand, prompting for scalp scratches and hair petting. The thought itself sends a hot spark of arousal low in his gut and Eames downs the rest of his wine just to hide the fact that he’s salivating from the sheer intensity of his desire.

The fact that Arthur is staring at him is not helping to tame it down at all. Au contraire, his gaze makes Eames insides go impossibly hot, hands fidgeting. He licks his dry lips craving more wine, but the second bottle is already empty. “Maybe we could have a drink now?” he suggests, and Arthur nods but hesitates, visibly contemplating something.

“Yeah, sure,” Arthur breathes. “I might have a bottle of whiskey down in my office.” Eames sends him a pointed look and Arthur answers him with one of his own conveying ‘I dare you to comment on it’. Eames just beams.

“But before that I want you to know something,” Arthur continues, his expression grim and tone unsure, cautious. “I’ve wrote your evaluation. It’s been sent to Cobb and to your house as well.” Eames feels a stab of disappointment that he won’t be meeting with Arthur anymore, but soon the comprehension dawns on him and the feeling is replaced with hope and more arousal builds in his gut. He smirks at Arthur and drawls, “So…” seeing relief washing over the doctor’s tense body when it’s clear that Eames understood.

Arthur smirks back. “So…?”

“So whatever happens next will be on us. Because we want it to happen. Without any evaluation or psychoanalysis hanging above our heads. ”

“Exactly. What do you say then?”

_ ‘Oh Arthur. You’re the loveliest flirt ever,’ _ Eames thinks to himself smiling.  _ ‘So it is a date after all and he is flirting, in his twisted, Arthurian way.’ _ He could fist pump right now. He collects himself though as he answers “I say we go and have that drink.” With the smile as wide he probably looks like a loon but doesn’t give a damn.


	4. Epilogue

Arthur likes to go and watch Eames fight sometimes. He would stand clad in his meticulous and flamboyant suit among a screaming and energetic crowd of people in the second or third row and watch attentively, eyes glued on Eames’ body, gaze appraising and caressing. Although Eames doesn’t believe in lucky charms, only having one totem in his life – old and weary poker chip he’d nicked from his grandpa’s ancient pile – that he carried in his pocket while winning hand after hand of poker back in the old days, he can’t deny the fact that he’s better  while Arthur is watching. Not that he would ever say out loud to anyone that Arthur is his lucky charm, he’s wiser than that, thank you very much.

Eames isn’t preening nor needs to impress Arthur particularly, and yet Arthur’s concise ‘Well done’ or ‘Great fight tonight’ said sometimes to him after, gives him huge pleasure and sense of accomplishment, even though Arthur’s not an expert in this area. Cobb never acknowledged him like that, the knob that he is. Eames stopped expecting anything good coming from Cobb a long time ago.

_ “I’m not… like that. I don’t have any refined features. Like you,” Eames said self-consciously one day at the beginning of their relationship, reclined in bed after one particularly amazing shag. _

_ Arthur rolled on his side to face him, head propped up on his elbow and said softly, smiling, “Oh, you have many features that interest me.” _

_ Eames felt his cheeks going pink so he buried his head under the nearest pillow and mumbled mortified, “But I’m a messed up bum while you are the finest creature I’ve seen.” _

_ Laughing, Arthur snatched the pillow away and hit him hard in the arm. He leaned over Eames’ body and dimpling bumped their noses together before saying, “You have a wrong assumption that what could interest me is very similar to myself.” _

_ Snorting inelegantly and blushing even more, Eames scooted back to sit at the headboard and crossed his arms, pouting he moaned, “And you have an awful habit of stating my opinions for me.” _

_ “You see? I’m not as perfect as you thought,” Arthur said cheerfully, grinning. Animated, he crawled on his hands and knees, stopping a mere inch away from Eames’s face and drawled with a husky voice, “Search some more and you’ll find that I’m a flawed human being like everyone.” He bit Eames’s jaw. _

_ Eames automatically nuzzled his neck, inhaling greedily Arthur’s scent. “I would very much like to look closer at you,” he murmured. _

_ “Yeah, you can kiss my neck,” Arthur whispered back offering his permission and his neck. _

During fight Eames is an epitome of masculinity; he still maintains the image of typical straight male. To his luck, no one asks too many questions about his private life, focusing on his career and physical condition and that somehow makes unwinding in his private time easier. And unwind he does. Thanks to Arthur, Eames stopped repressing who he is and what he really wants, in front of himself.

That is how he ends here, kneeling on the floor of Arthur’s bedroom, like after almost every big fight nowadays, regardless of Arthur’s attendance, with his hands bound behind his back by two black leather handcuffs, shirtless and waiting to be commandeered.

He’s watching Arthur putting on his white protective lab coat – always refusing to get his suits dirty when blood comes or may come to the picture. Like that day in the hunting hut. Eames started to get a pavlovian response at the mere sight of this coat since then. It goes without saying that Arthur looks bloody fantastic in it – professional, dangerous and pristine, though for not too long - and it gets Eames all bothered and impatient to see it dirtied, or better yet – to make it so himself. The promise of the future events that putting the coat on Arthur signifies is enough for Eames’s cock to jump inside of his pants and starting to fill.

“You get off on this, don’t you?” Eames asks. Arthur turns his head towards him kneeling in front of Arthur’s bed, and raises an inquiring eyebrow.

Eames must lick his dried lips to be able to continue. “On body, meat, blood, sinew,” he swallows, “but not violence, never violence.” It’s what he feared at the beginning, to be honest, that Arthur would like to spare with him or tried to defeat him on one on one match, but no, Arthur was never prone to any physical violence, even though he prefers rather rough handling in bed.

“Violence doesn’t get you off. Obedience, more likely,” he smirks as he continues with deep, raspy voice “Or is it competency?”

Arthur just curls the corner of his mouth upward, just a tick to show he’s amused, just a tick until he knows his dimple shows and turns towards his drawers and fuck if this alone doesn’t make Eames hot all over his body, temperature raising so violently he’s already almost dizzy in the head. He knows what’s in there, has seen it all, though wasn’t allowed to try everything yet. He shakes from the chills that go over his back.

When he speaks again, his voice is shaky and already so desperate, and Arthur didn’t do anything to him yet. “Yeah. It’s competency. I know you like it, you value it.”

Arthur found what he’s apparently been looking for and Eames might go crazy, he wants to know so much. Arthur puts something behind his back when he turns to face Eames once again. His smug expression only makes Eames yearn more.

His eyes flicker to Arthur’s middle every second or two hoping he’ll get a glimpse of what he’s hiding. “You like it when I’m competent. When I win.” He has to swallow again, his mouth going more and more dry. “You get hard watching me win. I know you do. I can almost smell it in the cage.” He’s bubbling, god he does, but anything to make a reaction out of Arthur, anything to get him bloody going already.

He’s desperate, wound tight with anticipation and what he accomplished? He’s made Arthur huff a laugh. Arthur laughs at him, not even pink at the cheeks, while he’s panting and straining within the confines of Arthur’s earlier order to kneel and not to move.

Finally Arthur rolls his eyes and says amused, “You couldn’t possibly smell my dick on the stage Eames. Not even such a cock slut like you has senses this sharp.” With his last words his hips stop an inch before Eames’s nose. God, he’s such a tease, his Arthur is. Eames only whimpers. Before he’s able to press his face into Arthur’s groin, Arthur sidesteps him and stands behind his back.

“With all due respect Eames, sometimes you do need to shut up,” Arthur says and presents to Eames a red circular gag attached to a black leather strap with a silver buckle and Eames sighs loudly. He nods once and opens his mouth, though he’s sure Arthur can’t see him doing it. He leans forward and takes the ball gag in, then he feels the buckle closing at the back of his skull. Arthur checks if the strap is fastened comfortably and leans over Eames’s shoulder to look sideways at him.

When he’s pleased that the gag is secured in place and won’t cause too much discomfort to Eames, he flashes an evil smile. “Sometimes I like you best when you can’t run your filthy mouth freely,” he says, pats at Eames’ shoulders and pushes Eames’ pants down to his knees.

It’s a little unexpected, because it’s not like Arthur to move to the next level this quick when they scene together, but not like Eames either to voice any complaint. He waits, able to do nothing more and not wanting to disobey Arthur.

He can hear the unmistakable sound of lube being squeezed out and tenses, Arthur wouldn’t ever skip to penetration this soon, Eames is sure Arthur isn’t even hard enough yet and he almost jumps when a warm hand touches his arse cheek and kneads. When said hand spreads his cheek apart Eames stops breathing, in anticipation or excitement or fear – he’s not sure, but as soon as he feels slick and hard narrow tip of a butt plug breeching him, he relaxes immediately, sagging into Arthur’s arms and chest trusting him to help and support his weight.

He can’t help himself but moan around his ball gag as Arthur works the plug into his arse, spreads his legs wider, as wide as his pants will allow him. It goes easily, smoothly, his hole used to being filled regularly; the thought alone gives Eames a funny feeling in his chest, perhaps some people call it butterflies and sod them all, Eames calls it ‘being owned’.

Arthur works it in very meticulously and slow. It’s torture. It’s heaven. Arthur holds him in his arms, nosing his neck and shoulder, his nape and tickles the short hair there with his soft exhales. When it’s finally fully in place, he withdraws it an inch or two and roughly pushes inside again, fucking it into Eames like it could magically be pushed deeper that it’s designed to go.

After a moment Eames starts to push his arse back, fucking himself on the plug still held firmly in Arthur’s hand. It gains him a growl from Arthur, whose mouth stopped right behind Eames’s left ear, “Slut, such a cock slut. Always so hungry for it.” And Eames whines, because tension is unbearable and his cock is so hard, even harder at Arthur’s words, nudges wetly under his bellybutton smearing precome.

“I need you to stand up,” Arthur murmurs. “Can you do it?”

Eames nods and stands, his legs only slightly shaking. Arthur helps him get rid of his pants and spreads him with both of his hands and examines the plug nestled fully into his hole. Eames can feel his face heat and squeezes his eyes shut, teeth closed around his ball gag to not to make a sound when Arthur probes the plug with his thumb and hums his approval.

Before standing up, Arthur puts black leather cuffs on his ankles, like he already has on his wrists and fuck, Eames can guess where this is going and fuck, he approves. He needs to take a couple of deep breaths to calm and steady himself.

With only his fingers placed between Eames’s shoulder blades Arthur guides him towards the bed, shuffling right behind him. “Lay down, on your back,” Arthur orders and watches as Eames hurries to comply.

He tosses and turns to find a remotely comfortable position, which is not easy with his hands bound behind his back, but he manages somehow and looks up at Arthur to see him already looking at him back with hunger in his eyes and his pink wet lips parted.

In a blink of an eye Arthur is beside him on the bed, kneeling by his side and damn, he looks so good. Eames can’t see if he’s hard, because his white lab coat obscures the view, and that’s a pity.

“On your side, facing the door,” Arthur commands again and again Eames happily obliges.

When he has his back to kneeling Arthur, Arthur arranges him to his liking; bends his knees so his ankles are very close to his bound wrists and clasps them all together with a chain. Eames moans, dizzy with want and arousal, they’ve done it before and he loves when Arthur restrains him, but this position - with his wrists and ankles bound together behind his back - is new, and he wants, he wants so much, everything, anything.

Arthur cards his fingers through his hair, massages his scalp, other hand touches, pets and kneads his arms, his muscles strained and protruding in this position. Eames is as flexible as Arthur. He is bulky, something that Arthur loves even though not comments on it. When he got his evaluation and he could go back to fighting, he took up his training again, he put some muscles back and ever since Arthur can't help himself but touch and caress and openly stare sometimes, like he’s perplexed, hypnotized with working muscles and sinews.

“If only you could see yourself now, Eames,” Arthur says directly into his ear, “You look so beautiful.” Eames shuts his eyes and breathes deep.

“I have a last one patient so I’m gonna go down and attend to her and I expect you to wait here for me. When I’ll be back I’ll fuck you… regardless of how many times you’ll rub yourself off on the duvet, so keep that in mind. I won’t take off your ball gag so you won’t be able to voice any complaint about being too sensitive.” He pulls on Eames’s hair until his head leans back, exposing his thick neck that Arthur eagerly bites.

“I will walk in here, push you onto your front, spread your thighs as wide as they’ll go, pull the plug out and push my cock into your hole and take what I want. Are we clear?” Eames tries to nod but his hair hurt too much so he makes a weak sound down in his throat praying Arthur will understand. Apparently he does, because Arthur releases his hold and whispers, “Good” into Eames’s jaw and kisses it.

Arthur swings himself off of bed and walks towards the door, stopping only for a moment to take off his white coat and put his suit jacket on instead. When he looks back at Eames laying on the bed, he adds casually, “If I find you asleep when I’m back, you’re going to spend the whole night with your butt plug inside.”

He turns to go but goes back to say, “Oh, and if you smear the duvet with this blood, I won’t touch you until you’ll wash it up, dry it and put back on.” He smiles and with that he’s gone, door softly clicking shut after him.

Eames looks down on himself and yeah, there is blood smeared onto his chest. He can’t remember whose blood is this, his or maybe his opponents, but he’ll be careful, he can be good when he puts his mind to it. As a reward, Arthur will give him exactly when he needs.

**Author's Note:**

> The title came to me as last moment thing. I like the double meaning of it in this fic - Clinical case submission is the name of the form you would have to fill out before sending an article about medical case you've been studied for review in order to be published (if accepted) in a renowned journal. 
> 
> It's better than the first and second ones. Trust me. I almost named this fic (You're) deer to my heart. IDEK.


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